


Purple Arrows

by thepensword



Series: Ficlets and Drabbles of the Fandom Variety [5]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Arrow canon-molding, Clint Barton is a dork, Fraction's Hawkeye, Kate Bishop Is Superior To All, Kate and Thea are not and will never be sidekicks to anyone, Kate and Thea-centric, Not a whole lot of plot, but some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepensword/pseuds/thepensword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate Bishop is not a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, and yet somehow she keeps getting dragged along on these goddamn missions. Thanks, Clint. But even though she's not a S.H.I.E.L.D agent (no, really, she's not) she's pretty darn good at it.<br/>That is, when grouchy vigilantes aren't getting involved. </p><p>(Clint is the best archer in the world. He is. Really, he is. Kate, stop laughing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purple Arrows

**Author's Note:**

> Yo. So I should be working on any of the three stories that I have in progress at the moment, but I'm not. Instead I wrote this. Whoops. And it's not even finished. It needs more chapters. At least, like, one more chapter. What was I thinking?
> 
> Anyway, this idea has been floating around in my head for the past three months and I finally decided to write it down. I hope you enjoy it, but first: some facts.
> 
> This takes place in seasons three AND four of the Arrow. Confused? Let me explain. This is in a little bit of an alternate world where Lance never found out about Oliver being the Arrow and subsequently never ratted his secret all over the place. Or maybe he did find out and just decided to keep his mouth shut. Anyway, Oliver's secret was never told, and so Roy never had to pose as the Arrow to take the heat off of him.  
> In my story, Roy simply decided to retire from the job. Now he works at Verdant (yes, they still have Verdant. And money. And Verdant, dangit. Because reasons.) and Thea (the two are still dating, by the way) has taken over as Oliver's clad-in-red archer partner; Speedy, or the Red Arrow. Take your pick.  
> Also: Laurel is the Black Canary. Digg has his Spartan face-bucket thing. Oliver has the sleeveless uniform. Oliver and Felicity are...maybe dating? If you want them to be? But they never took that ridiculously long vacation on a tropical island. Look, I like Olicity, but I do NOT like all the ridiculous melodrama that stems from it and I think Felicity is a stronger character when she's not attached to Oliver's hip. 
> 
> Anyway. Now that that's out of the way, enjoy.

**Purple Arrows**

A Hawkeye and Arrow Adventure

Featuring

Two Arrows (Red and Green) and Two Hawkeyes (Both purple)

 

* * *

 

Green lights illuminated the room, gleaming off of the glass walls and expensive marble tabletops. Skirts swirled around stiletto-clad legs and tuxedoes turned the men into dapper penguins. Speakers throughout the room were almost as commonplace as the security cameras, and while normally they blasted eardrum-shattering pop music, today they softly amplified the flowing of a world-class cellist, hired especially for this event by means of more money than most people see in the entirety of their lifetimes.

In the center of the room, a man and a woman danced. The young woman swayed and bobbed with the music, elegantly twisting with the grace of a dancer, while the man held her hand alternately too tightly or too loosely while simultaneously stepping on her feet.

“Can we go?” asked the man in a tone that was absolutely _not_ a whine. A bead of sweat trickled from his sand-colored hairline and down his temple.

The young woman rolled her eyes and stomped on his foot in retaliation. He swore and tried for revenge, but she nimbly avoided him.

“This was your damn mission,” hissed the girl. “You better be glad I’m rich.”

“You’re not rich,” he pointed out bluntly. “Not anymore, anyway. Now you’re broke.”

Purple satin shifted as the girl’s lilac heel stepped down on the toe of his cheap, faux-leather shoe. He let out a very manly yelp and stooped to attend to it.

“I’m going to go scope out the area,” said the girl as if nothing had happened. “See if I can find our target.”

“Technically it’s _my_ target,” pointed out the man, but he was wise enough to wait until her slim purple form had disappeared into the crowd.

Across the room, past the few swaying dancers and the more numerous conversationalists with drinks in hand, was another girl. She was about the same age as the other young woman, and she was built similarly, but while the first woman’s inky black hair tumbled loosely onto purple satin, the seconds’ short brown curls stopped just above the sleeveless crimson of a silk dress. She was leaning against the bar, sipping club soda and chatting with the bartender who, based on her playful tone, was perhaps a date or simply a close friend.

“So then she says—“

“Thea.” A man had appeared from the crowd, dressed in a black suit and with features similar to the girl’s. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Thea and the bartender exchanged a look. “I’m assuming this has something to do with your…extracurriculars,” said the bartender.

“Sure you don’t want to join?” the newcomer asked. “We could use a man like you on our team.”

“I told you I was out and I meant it. It’s time to live my life.”

Thea shrugged. “He doesn’t want to, then he doesn’t want to,” she said. “Ollie, what do you need?”

Ollie looked around subtly before replying. “Diggle spotted Wilcott on the dance floor. It’s time to get into positions.”

With a sigh, Thea set her drink down on the counter. “Sorry, Roy. Duty calls.”

The bartender nodded and took her glass. “Have fun.”

                                      

* * *

 

 

**3 HOURS AGO**

“Jeremy Wilcott,” said Maria Hill as she slammed a paper file down onto the table. The entire thing wobbled on uneven legs and Clint’s coffee spilled over the edges of his mug. His “Aw, coffee, no,” was ignored.

“Who is he?” asked Kate, reaching for the file and opening it to the picture of a middle-aged man, gray-streaked black hair slicked back in classic creeper style. Grayish skin stretched taut around a leery smile, the picture having been stealthily taken from a distance.

“He’s a Class A scumbag,” answered Hill briskly. “Human trafficking, drug dealing. Runs a business right out of Starling City.”

Kate’s lip curled as she stared at the photo. Human trafficking was the nice word for ‘praying on helpless women and forcing them into prostitution’. Of all the criminals the younger Hawkeye fought, human traffickers were the ones she hated the most.

“Starling City,” mused Clint, grabbing the file from her and skimming the first page. “Doesn’t A.R.G.U.S. have a major base there?”

Hill nodded. “It’ll make it difficult, for sure. But they’re not doing anything about the situation, so we’re taking control. The mission is covert, though; there’s no need to broadcast what we’re doing to them.”

“What about that archer?” asked Kate. “The Hood, or whatever he’s calling himself these days. Green Apple?”

Clint stiffened. “Wait, Robin Hood? That second-rate rent-an-archer is in Starling?”

Hill raised an eyebrow.

“He’s been a little obsessed,” Kate stage-whispered. “I think he’s mad that he’s now only the _third_ best archer in the world.”

“Third?” asked Clint and Hill at the same time.

“Well, clearly I’m the best.”

Clint slouched in his chair and pouted.

“The Green Arrow shouldn’t be a problem,” continued Hill dismissively before moving on. “We have intel that Wilcott will be appearing at a charity benefit in two days. The benefit will be held at a club called ‘Verdant’, hosted by the Queen family as a way to raise money to clean up the poor borough of Starling, referred to by the locals as ‘the Glades’.”

Kate huffed, her bangs fluttering on her forehead. “Charity benefit,” she sighed. “Fun.”

 

* * *

 

**NOW**

“Damnit, this is why I’m not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Kate growled as she pushed through the crowd, stomping on people’s toes.

 

* * *

 

_“It’s time to get into positions.”_

Diggle by the stairs. Laurel by the door. Oliver a few steps away, pretending to engage in a polite conversation.

And Thea, here. Moving through the crush of bodies to casually place herself directly in Wilcott’s line of sight, where he would surely notice her and ask her to dance.

Thea hated her position.

“Moving into position,” she whispered into her comm. set as her heels click-clacked across the floor towards Wilcott.

She stopped a few steps away from him and pulled out her phone, fiddling with its screen in an imitation of boredom. No one noticed the faint tremble in her fingertips.

She was, after all, a nineteen-year-old girl in a party dress trying to take down a man who preyed on girls _exactly_ like her. To not be afraid would not be bravery, but foolishness. Fear is the weapon that all humanity must bear.

Regardless, she was afraid.

Thea tensed imperceptibly as she felt his gaze catch on her, making her skin crawl. From the corner of her eye she caught his prying eyes and leery smile and she felt sick.

She braced herself, knowing that he would soon approach, knowing she’d have to play along and feel his roaming hands around her as he pulled her into the music and then—

—then she felt his gaze move away. Thea risked a glance towards him to see that his attention had been diverted. A girl was spinning through the crowd, dancing gracefully, her lilac skirt swinging around and giving her the appearance of a butterfly perched on a flower. Her black hair was held back by a braided headband, elegantly studded with miniscule diamonds (or, at least, what passed for diamonds).

She was stunning, and she was headed straight for Wilcott. In short, she was a liability, a previously unknown variable that could throw a huge wrench in their plans.

“Crap,” breathed Thea as Wilcott and the girl collided. He caught her as she fell, staring unabashedly down at her bust.

Thea had to work hard to swallow her bile.

The intercom in her ear crackled to life. “ _Thea?”_ came Felicity’s voice over the line. _“Um, not to raise the alarm or anything, but ‘crap’ is not a good thing to hear during a mission.”_

 _“Speedy? Is something wrong?”_ asked Oliver. Thea’s eyes searched through the crowd until she saw him, and his gaze met hers. Subtly she nodded towards Wilcott and the girl, and he frowned.

 _“Who is she?”_ he asked.

“No idea. She came out of nowhere and collided with him.”

Wilcott and the girl were now dancing, his arms wrapped around her as she giggled uncontrollably. Thea’s stomach churned as she watched him whisper something in the girl’s ear. She blushed, giggling unbelievably harder, and nodded. Wilcott smiled creepily and wrapped an arm around her waist, guiding her outside.

“ _Crap_ ,” said both Queens at the same time.

 _“Laurel, he’s headed your way,”_ came Felicity’s voice. Thea glanced at her brother, eyebrow raised pointedly.

 _“Follow, but do not engage,”_ ordered Oliver. _“You have your mask with you?”_

 _“Yes, of course,_ ” answered Laurel.

_“Once you’re out of sight, intercept Wilcott and get that girl somewhere safe. Diggle, you provide backup. Thea and I will be out in a minute.”_

He looked at her, his expression serious. “ _Suit up.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Kate Bishop, I am going to murder you,” Clint muttered as he wove his way through the crowd after his wayward apprentice. “This wasn’t the plan. We were supposed to wait until he left and follow him from a distance. This? This is reckless and dangerous and you’re going to get into trouble.”

 _“I find parties_ so _dull,”_ sighed Kate through the intercom, before giggling uncharacteristically. Clint had to suppress a growl.

“I swear, if he hurts you, I will make sure he never sees the light of day again.”

 _“I have this handled,”_ Kate giggled in bubbly Russian.

“Jesus Christ, Kate.”

Clint loosened his tie and began to jog. As he finally reached the door, he grabbed his quiver and compact bow from behind a potted plant.

 _“Don’t you dare blow my cover,”_ muttered Kate, this time in Arabic.

Clint knew what she was doing. She was using her allure to get a first class ticket straight into Wilcott’s trafficking business. It was smart, too, but there was a serious flaw.

Wilcott would, undoubtedly, not want to share everything with his men, and there was a very handy alleyway outside of the club. Kate was young, pretty, and currently attached to his hip, and even though Clint knew she could take care of herself, he also knew that she could not defend herself without blowing cover.

Damnit. This looked bad. This looked so, so bad.

 

* * *

 

 Kate would never admit it, but she was beginning to think she’d made a mistake.

Wilcott was a leech, wrapped around her and nuzzling her neck and all she wanted to do was kick him in the crotch and then step on him with her formidable two-inch stilettos, but she resisted the urge (barely) and let him pull her towards the alleyway.

Ah, crap. Alleyway.

 _Come on, Bishop,_ she thought. _Use your brain. Talk your way out of this._

“So...” she said, drawing out the syllable in a teasing fashion. “A little bird told me that you’re quite the entrepreneur.”

He stiffened, pulling back slightly to stare at her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, a friend of my friend’s sister’s cousin’s nephew—who happens to be a distant relation of the president, the secretary of state, the head of the FBI, and Michael Jackson—said that he heard that you,” she pointed a finger at him and giggled, “are the man that anyone who’s anyone in the crime world should talk to, and I mean _come on_ , who doesn’t love a bad boy.”

Wilcott blinked. Then he blinked again. Then, slowly, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of what she said and so decided to take it as a compliment, he smiled.

“Your friend’s…sister’s…whatever heard right,” he said, lips brushing her ear. “I’m the king. Wanna see my castle?”

Kate had to resist the urge to whoop in triumph and instead contented herself with a rousing mental congratulations. “Ooh, I’d love to.”

“Good,” said Wilcott. “But first…” And then he was dragging her towards the alleyway and everything was going wrong.

Crap, crap, crap, what should she do? She couldn’t blow cover, she was so close, but…but she couldn’t let this happen and…damnit, she should have stuck with Clint’s stupid plan.

Screw it. Maybe she could intimidate the information out of this perv.

As the shadows of the alleyway swallowed them and Wilcott leaned closer, Kate brought her knee up in a blur of purple satin and caught him right in the crotch. He gasped, fingers digging into her waist.

“Why, you little—“

She spun around and slammed him into the wall hard enough to knock the air out of him. As his fingers loosened, she flipped backwards out of his grasp, kicking him in the face in the process. He slumped to the ground, gasping and with blood dribbling from his lip.

Kate grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him up, pressing him hard into the bricks behind him. “Where’s your base of operations?” she demanded.

Wilcott’s head lolled and he peered at her through half-closed eyes. “Wha—“

“What. The. Hell.”

Kate’s head snapped to the side, followed more slowly by Wilcott’s. A newcomer stood at the opening to the alleyway, clad in a slick black party dress with blond hair spilling over her shoulders and her eyes hidden by a black mask. By her side was a tall man with dark skin, black suit bulging with ill-concealed muscles and face hidden by some sort of helmet.

“Oh, hey,” said Kate as nonchalantly as possible. “Um…”

Two sets of footsteps; one dropping lightly to the ground behind her, one perching on the fire escape above. Kate’s eyes darted subtly upwards—a slim female archer clad in red—before she angled herself slightly so that she could see behind.

Oh. Crap.

“Crap.”

Behind her stood a muscular archer, covered head to toe in green leather (excepting, of course, for his bare-skinned arms) and with a hood shadowing his masked face. She knew him immediately; Clint had certainly forced her to watch enough grainy news footage of the vigilante (complete with 100% genuine Hawkeye whining commentary) with the goal of ‘analyzing his fighting style’, better known as ‘I want you to tell me that I’m still better than him.’

The Green Archer. Or whatever.

 

  _TO BE CONTINUED...._


End file.
